Trey drove us out of Downtown, taking the Connector up through the heart of the city. The first snow sifted down, as graceful as a ballet, as sweet as marshmallows. Only flurries for the next twenty-four hours, said the forecasters, the soft edge of the advancing high-pressure front.
Trey didn’t trust the weather report, however. He kept a baleful eye on the clouds like a particularly grumpy Chicken Little, waiting for the whole sky to fall in pieces. But for now, the city was calm, the traffic extraordinarily light, even for a Sunday afternoon. He could have let the Ferrari slip the traces a bit, if he’d wanted. But he never wanted. Only in matters of life or death did he open the engine full throttle.
“Did you find what you needed?” he said.
“I did. Mrs. Price was very helpful.”
He flipped the heater up a notch and didn’t reply. He was back to that robotic passivity again—eyes distant, mouth set in a straight line. My brother described it as “flat affect,” a psychological term, but I knew it could change in a split second.
“You were partners with her daughter? In SWAT?”
“I was.”
“Keesha?”
He nodded again. I’d learned enough about the structure of police departments to know that only one specialized unit in that already specialized unit required partnering with another operator.
“She was a sniper too,” I said.
“Kee preferred the term ‘sharpshooter.’”
“And you?”
“I had no preference.”
He’d been perfect for the job—smart enough to work the algorithms, steady enough to hit the bull’s-eye at a thousand yards—but he’d also felt the dangerous lure of being judge, jury, and executioner with a single pull of the trigger. So he’d turned in his resignation. And then the accident happened, and he lost the rest of his life in one wrenching, bloody night.
He adjusted the wipers. “The traffic report says 400 is clear, so we should get home with no problems.”
Changing the subject. I let him. It was the day before February ninth. Not a time to be pulling scabs off still-healing emotional wounds.
“Trey?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t have any proof, and I won’t until we hear from Sophia Luckie’s family, but I don’t think it’s a coincidence that her bones were in Dexter’s shop. I think Lucius hid them there. After he found them on Amberdecker property.”
Trey kept his eyes on the instrument panel. “Because of the staining.”
“Yes. And I know—Georgia’s full of red clay—but that particular mottled pattern matches Braxton Amberdecker’s bones perfectly. Lucius had access to both Amberdecker land and Dexter’s shop.”
“Your uncle had access to both as well. But for that matter, Lucius could have found them on park lands. There are striated red clay deposits there as well. It’s a circumstantial case.”
He had a point. A logical rational point. Which didn’t matter one iota. I had a hunch, as if a ghost were whispering in my ear.
“There’s something missing in the story,” I said. “I don’t know what it is, not yet. These bones connect to the Amberdeckers, though, I’m certain of it. And since we’re going to be stuck inside a while…wait a second, why are you in the exit lane for 400?”
He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Because we’re going to my place. You always stay at my place on Saturday nights.”
“Yes, but that was before Brenda got shot, and the bones got found—”
“Which is even more reason to stay at my place.”
“Which is even more reason to stay at the shop. To protect it.”
He returned his attention to the road. He couldn’t articulate his reasoning, but I’d seen it before. I’d get into trouble, he’d go into crusading knight-at-arms mode, then when the situation cooled off, he’d retreat into the vacuum of his black-and-white apartment.
I swiveled in the seat to face him. “My place is as secure as yours. There’s a Kennesaw cop out front, a safe room in the back, and a fully functional state-of-the-art security system throughout.”
“There hasn’t been a shooting at my place.”
“But my research is at the shop! I can’t—”
“You can get it in the morning. I’ll drive you back.”
“But—”
“Tai.” He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, jaw tight. “Please.”
I sighed. The snow blew in frenzies and twirls. Already patches of white covered the medians, as flimsy as a negligee. The traffic would steamroll right over it; the airport would spasm for a few hours and then snowplow it into dirty humps. Life would go on. But it was the eighth of February. And Trey had said please.
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll stay at your place—”
“Thank you.”
“But we have to go back to the shop first. I need my car, and my research.”
“But the snow—”
“—is barely on the ground.” I rested my hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscle tighten and then relax. “Besides, this way you can check the security system one more time.”
“Tai—”
“Please.”
He thought about it, then flipped the turn signal to move out of the exit lane. “Fine. But be quick about it.”